


Worth the Wait

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Metaphysical foreplay, Snake Tongue, Soft and Fluffy, oh lord the yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: Oh my God, they held hands!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82
Collections: Name That Author Round 3: After Dark





	Worth the Wait

**Author's Note:**

> written for round 3 (After Dark) of the Guess that Author Game

They can count on one hand the times they’ve touched.

The nudge of eyes when the other is distracted don’t count. Scents aren’t worth mentioning: they change with fashion and preferences.

Awareness of soft unfurling grace, or the slither of obsidian scales are also par for the course.

They know what each other look like.

Touch is different. Touch awakens something dangerous. It’s harder to justify. Brushes of fingertips over a bag of books, a tartan flask. More recently a clasp of hands on a park bench. Each transference of heat and matter is a hoarded treasure. A risk. 

That bench is behind them and the world stretches out in front. The backs of their hands brush. They walk on. Their fingers touch. Aziraphale reminisces as they leave the garden, but he doesn’t move away. If anything he moves closer, pointing across Crowley at something interesting. Fingers nudge together, become entangled. They walk on. Neither of them mention it because words make secrets real.

This secret isn't quite ready to be spoken. 

They’re palm to palm now. Aziraphale stops talking. Crowley wishes he would start again, anything to distract from his anxiety. He does not hold on tighter because that never works with Aziraphale. They walk like the world hasn't almost ended, that it may be ending again, just a little bit, in the too loud thud of a demon’s heart and the smile that an angel always fails to hide.

They exchange a furtive sideways acknowledgement.

Crowley breaks first.

London is full of alleyways. This one may always have been there, or it may have been startled into existence because it was needed.

Crowley doesn’t push Aziraphale against the wall, but he faces him and lifts their joined hands. He looks in wonder at his long, spindly fingers resting between pale, sturdier ones. Their eyes meet. A question and consent. Crowley dips his head and his tongue flickers over Aziraphale’s knuckles, tasting skin-salt and celestial sweetness. Aziraphale gasps and it vibrates between realities as he fills Crowley up with love and desire. Crowley's skin is too tight, his trousers are definitely too tight. 

"Easy."

Aziraphale pulls back, but he keeps his free hand in Crowley's hair. Growing braver he drags his nails over Crowley's scalp. Crowley whines, fighting to keep his rush of need in this dimension. Aziraphale's breath quickens. 

The ether surrounding them throbs. 

As Crowley straightens up Aziraphale’s fingers drift from his head to his cheek. They leave a tingling glow that slowly fades. Crowley palms Aziraphale’s jaw, grips the back of his neck. Their foreheads come together so that even their breath touches. Their gazes lock tight over the rims of Crowley's shades. Their hands are squashed between their hearts.

“Crowley, what if we can’t stop?”

“Then we don’t stop.”

“Not ever?”

“Somewhere else you need to be, angel?”

"The Ritz?" said with a bastard smile. 

Crowley laughs.

Eventually they return to the London crowds. Still resolutely holding hands, they walk on. 


End file.
